Sarge's Safety Recall
by Twilit Violet
Summary: When the military issues a safety recall on all its Jeeps, Sarge couldn’t care less… but Fillmore does. My response to the safety recall of the Sarge diecast toys. Rated for mild language and suggestive dialogue. COMPLETE!
1. Part One

_Okay, folks. I know some of you have been following my other Cars fic "I'll Meet You On Route 62." Don't worry, I haven't abandoned it. I just happen to be working on a few short Cars fics, mainly one-shots, and decided to post one of them today. Well, the first part of it, anyway. __And yes, I am fully aware that lead is not really harmful to cars. It was all I could come up with for this fic, though, so just roll with it._

_Summary: When the military issues a safety recall on all its Jeeps, Sarge couldn't care less… but Fillmore does. My response to the safety recall of the Sarge diecast toys. One-shot. Rated for mild language and implied drug use._

SARGE'S SAFETY RECALL

_"Due to recent health and environmental concerns, the United States Army has announced a voluntary recall of all Willys Jeeps enlisted during or prior to the year 1954. Military issued paints employed during this timeframe have been tested and found to contain lead levels in excess of federal standards. _

_The United States Army strongly urges all Jeeps to whom this letter applies to contact the nearest military base immediately for instructions on, or assistance with, the safe removal of these lead-based paints. To locate the military base nearest you, please contact the number below._

_Prompt and safe removal of lead-based paint is imperative as excessive levels of lead are known to cause numerous health risks, including, but not limited to..."_

Sarge's bumper curled in a sneer as he refolded the letter. He saw no point in reading any further. A far cry from the call to service he'd expected when he saw the Army insignia on the envelope, the recall notice hardly seemed worth the paper it was printed on. Nor was it worth the time or effort that would be required to remove his paint, Sarge was certain.

The mail truck was just leaving when Fillmore came out to get his mail. He blinked sleepily in the bright summer sunlight and paused to admire a cluster of golden poppies and dandelions growing beside the fence that separated Sarge's yard from his.

"Hey man," he mumbled, parking beside the Jeep. Sarge grunted in reply but did not look at him. He continued to rummage through his mail as though the hippie weren't there.

Fillmore opened his mailbox. "Eww, junk mail," he grimaced. "Well, better than nothing, I suppose. Least they acknowledge my existence." He pulled the papers out and turned to Sarge. "So what'd you get? The usual nothing?"

Sarge flashed him a quick glance, but said nothing as he hurriedly stuffed the letter back in its envelope.

"What's that?" Fillmore asked, eyeing it curiously.

"Nothing a hippie would be interested in," came the Jeep's curt reply.

"How would you know?" asked the bus. "Last I heard, you weren't a hippie."

"And hell will freeze over before I ever become one!" Sarge retorted. He held up the envelope so that the Army's logo clearly showed. "Does this look even remotely appealing to you?" he demanded, waving the letter in the bus's face.

Fillmore's eyes widened slightly and he backed away. "Not particularly, no." Sarge smirked. "I didn't think so," he murmured, then turned away to sort through the rest of his mail again. "I suppose if this had landed in your mailbox by mistake you'd be halfway to Canada by now."

Fillmore chuckled. "Nah, man. Too far. It's way easier to just stay home and pretend I don't exist."

Sarge snorted. "Of course. What was I thinking? You're too damn lazy even to dodge the draft!"

Fillmore stared at the envelope uneasily. "Is that what you got - a draft letter?"

"Don't be ridiculous!" Sarge snapped. "I didn't sit around waiting to get drafted to serve my country! I enlisted the moment I turned eighteen, just like any decent, upstanding American citizen would! If my country needs me, they'll send me a call to service letter, which would just be a waste of paper because I'd be out there serving before they even mailed it out!"

"Then how come you're still here, man?" Fillmore inquired. "Shouldn't you be off - I dunno - destroying someone else's country in the name of protecting this one right now?"

Sarge pierced him with such an icy glare just then that one might have thought the bus was burning Old Glory right on the veteran's own lawn. "In case you haven't been paying attention," he growled, "Vietnam ended thirty years ago. If there _was_ a war going on right now, I certainly wouldn't be wasting my time here arguing with a hippie!"

"I wouldn't be wasting my time either," said Fillmore, sounding slightly offended. "There's always plenty of fighting going on at home that needs to be resolved first, ya know."

"Oh yeah? When have you ever had to battle anything other than the munchies?"

Fillmore chuckled. "What, you've never been to a peace rally?"

Sarge's snort was answer enough.

"Yeah well, they're not always as peaceful as you think," the bus replied. "Believe you me. How d'you think I lost this?" he asked, dipping his right side to indicate where his rearview mirror had been broken off. Sarge said nothing, only raised a skeptical brow. "The Man came and tried to drag me away by the mirror. Snapped it right off. Wouldn't give it back to me either." He stared levelly at the old Jeep as though willing him to understand.

Sarge was barely able to keep the disgust from his voice as he replied. "Oh, what a tragedy! And to think, you didn't even get a Purple Heart! Well, would you like one of mine? I've got two!" He was practically yelling by the time he had finished, and he had raised himself up on his axles, his face mere inches from his neighbor's.

Fillmore blinked, then started to slowly back away. "I'm sensing some major hostility here," he mumbled.

Sarge snorted and turned away, dropping all of his junk mail, recall notice included, into the garbage can at the end of his driveway before returning to his hut.

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_Part one done! Please stay tuned for more! And please, please, please review!_


	2. Part Two

_A/N: Sorry this took so long. I really should've waited till the whole fic was done before posting the first part. Here's part two, and there will be at least one more part after this, maybe two. Not sure yet. I upped the rating a bit, just in case. I usually can't be trusted to keep a story G-rated. Sorry, kids. _

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SARGE'S SAFETY RECALL

PART TWO

Fillmore waited until he heard Sarge's door close behind him, then cautiously approached the garbage can. He fished the letter out and took it into his dome where he perused it by the rosy glow of a lava lamp. What he read caused his normally droopy eyes to widen considerably. "Aw man…"

It was nearly noon when the bus pulled up to Flo's and parked in his usual spot beneath the awning. Mia rolled up to him a moment later. Fillmore ordered a small can of oil and settled comfortably on his axles, watching the street for his neighbor. The waitress returned promptly with his drink and he thanked her. He sipped it disinterestedly as his eyes and mind began to wander.

A few minutes later the unmistakable growl of Sarge's engine preceded him up the street. Fillmore snapped to attention. The Jeep parked beside him. He did nothing to acknowledge his neighbor. Not even a grunt or a sideways glance.

"Hey man," Fillmore greeted him with his trademark dopey smile. Still nothing. He took another slow sip of his oil. "So, when're you gonna go to Ramone's?" he asked casually.

At this, Sarge raised a brow. "Why would I go to Ramone's?" he demanded.

Fillmore shrugged and looked away, watching a tumbleweed roll lazily across the street. "Uh, I dunno. I guess to get your paintjob redone?"

Sarge turned and stared at him for a moment, then narrowed his eyes in a cold glare. "So! Going through my garbage now, are we?" he growled. "Lousy tree humpers and your damn recycling! What, now you think you've got to read everything you find so the print doesn't go to waste?"

"That's tree _huggers,_" Fillmore corrected him. He chuckled. "And no, I'm not that extreme, man. Your letter was just lying there right on top, and I thought, what harm could it do to have a little look?"

Sarge snorted. "I suppose you wouldn't know OR care that reading other people's mail is a federal offense!" he grumbled.

"Not when it's trash, it isn't," Fillmore argued.

One of the twins approached Sarge hesitantly and awaited his order.

"The usual," he mumbled, without looking at her. Tia stared at him.

"Quart of thirty-weight Pennzoil, and make it snappy!" he barked. The girl did an about-face and sped off toward the diner as though she'd been stung. She appeared less than ten seconds later, dropping the can unceremoniously in front of the old Jeep and disappearing before he could ask for (or demand) anything else. Sarge pulled the can toward himself, grumbling incoherently. Fillmore caught the words 'pathetic' and 'bimbo,' and something else that made him blush bright pink and pray that he had misheard.

Sarge took a swig of his oil and stared straight ahead, brow furrowed further than usual. The hippie watched him with a smile.

"Soooo, when are you gonna get it done?" he asked.

Sarge set his can down with a loud clunk. "When pigs fly," he retorted, without looking at the bus.

Fillmore blinked. "Ooh, well maybe you didn't know, but there's, like, helicopters and airplanes who are cops, so technically pigs do f- " he shut his mouth promptly at a heated glare from Sarge.

"Seriously, man. You should really think about changing your paintjob," he went on. "That lead paint you're wearing is probably killing you slowly. It's totally not good for you. That stuff can cause all kinds of health problems, like…" he paused, trying to remember what the letter had said, "…like sterility and, uh, erectile dysfunction."

The Jeep shot him a nasty look.

"That's impotence," Fillmore added.

"I know what it is!" Sarge barked. "And I'll have you know that I am _not_ -" he bit his tongue before he could say another word.

"Relax, man," Fillmore chided. "S'not a big deal, ya know. You wouldn't be the first guy to have trouble hoisting the old flag."

Sarge turned to face him fully. "What are you on about, hippie?" he snapped. "Are you trying to tell me I'm getting too old? Because I'll have you know that I have absolutely NO trouble hoisting my flag! I do it every single morning and you should know because you're usually there watching me!" He was glaring heatedly at the bus when he noticed something red out of the corner of his eye. One of the twins was standing nearby, staring at him in shock. Sarge blanched when the full meaning of his words hit him. On top of that, he hadn't realized he'd been yelling until now.

Across the lot, Lightning, who had recently arrived, tried unsuccessfully to stifle a snicker. Beside him, Mater looked puzzled until the racecar whispered something to him that caused him to laugh out loud.

Feeling a most unpleasant heat under his hood, Sarge flashed one final glare at Fillmore before snatching up his half empty can of oil and driving off into the desert in a huff and a cloud of dust.


	3. Part Three

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Sorry this took so effing long. No excuse. Hope this new installment makes up for the long wait.  
More to come very, very soon. I hope.

SARGE'S SAFETY RECALL

PART THREE

Far out in the desert, well beyond the limits of humble Radiator Springs, lay a world bypassed not only by I-40, but by time itself. Where rock crumbled to dust, dust scattered to the wind, and withered sage whispered it's bittersweet secrets to ears not there to hear. A red-tailed hawk circled something only she could see. Her cries brought no mate to join her.

The mid-May sun bore down mercilessly on the fraying canvas roof of the old Jeep with the intensity of August. Sarge's radiator began to boil as he finally mounted the second largest hill in the obstacle course. His deep treads gripped the parched earth beneath his tires. They were all that kept him from sliding back down the hill or collapsing in an exhausted heap.

_Damn summertime,_ he thought with a wheeze. He stood, weak on his axles, atop the rise, looking out over the course he had so expertly designed and so skillfully ran endless laps over in his youth. Nowadays he was reduced to barking at lily-livered Hummers while they drove the course instead, and poorly at that. When they weren't whining over the lack of a Starbucks in Radiator Springs, they were complaining about poor cell phone reception or getting dirt in their blinged-up rims.

Sarge popped his hood open to allow the heat building up under it to escape. He had finished his can of oil over an hour ago and now his throat felt drier than the desert surrounding him. Having tired out after only two laps, he was by no means looking forward to the prospect of driving back over the course and all the way back to town just for an ice-cold beer from Flo's. Settling low on his axles, Sarge took out his canteen and gulped down the tepid water with a grimace. Well, it was better than nothing. The long, arduous years spent in the service had taught him not to complain, even to himself.

A barely adequate breeze drifted down from Cadillac Range, lulling Sarge into a peaceful state as he recuperated. The Jeep gazed sleepily at a shapeless cloud, weighing the pros and cons of going back to town for a drink. Out of the corner of his eye, something moved. He turned sharply and glared down at the thick patch of sage that bordered this end of the course. The brittle branches quivered like aspen leaves in the breeze. Sarge narrowed his eyes. For a moment, he was almost positive he'd seen…

A large lizard darted out of the bushes and scrambled halfway up the hill he was on, then disappeared down a hole. Sarge jumped slightly, then snorted. He rolled down the hill and edged his way around the next one. He had designed his course with slackers in mind, and had therefore made sure that the periphery was marginal enough to prevent a Hummer-sized vehicle from cheating.

Though he was much smaller than most of his recruits, he too found it difficult to maneuver along the edges of the course without being forced to tackle an obstacle or two along the way. In fact, he was so preoccupied with avoiding a barbwire-rimmed, mud-filled trench that at first he did not hear the sound. Just on his other side, the bushes that bordered the course rustled. Violently. Sarge barely made it past the trench when he froze.

The sage seemed to freeze also. Sarge cast a suspicious sideways glance at it. His eyes fixed on a twisted branch. It rustled again. The entire bush trembled with a nervous energy not born of the wind. Sarge's engine raced, though he remained rooted to the spot. He watched in horror as a pair of large, dark eyes slowly became visible through the branches. The rustling stopped. A deafening silence fell over the course. Sarge stared unblinking at the bush for what seemed like an eternity of terror.

With a mighty roar, a fully-camouflaged bus sprang out of the sagebrush. Sarge shrieked. Quicker than he had ever moved in his life, he zoomed out into the middle of the course, flying over the toughest obstacles as though they were mere pebbles in his path. The bus was right on his tail. A second vehicle appeared over a rise, also painted in camouflage. It stood tall on its hydraulics, looking down on him like the Grim Reaper come to claim his soul.

A cloud of dust went up as Sarge skidded to a halt, then swerved and took off in a new direction. The mystery vehicles were quickly gaining on him. Their deranged battle cries rang out over the course. And then… BANG! It happened. He was hit. Sarge lurched forward from the impact. Something thick and wet was running down his backside. Blood? Yes. It had to be. Heart pounding, he swerved just in time to avoid a large boulder and nearly toppled over.

He staggered back upright and accelerated, but that small blunder had been just enough to grant the enemies an advantage over him. Both vehicles took aim and fired again simultaneously. Sarge yelped as he was struck in the rear again and in the side. Blinded by terror, he nearly drove straight into a patch of barbwire. He turned at the last second, but still felt his canvas snag on a barb. The Jeep twisted himself free, tearing the fabric in the process.

In the split second in which he glanced back at his attackers, he noticed something very odd about the blood trail he'd left behind. Half of it was red - normal, arterial blood red - while the rest of it was a different color entirely. Sarge blinked. _Green? That doesn't make any sense… _He had no time to wonder about it, for the two strangers were bearing down on him from the top of a ridge. They raised their weapons. Sarge ducked out of the line of fire. The projectile sailed over his roof and splattered against a rock.

The Jeep stared at the bloody mess before him, utterly confused. "Wha -?" BANG! He was struck again, this time square on the roof. Sarge collapsed to the ground. _This is it. I'm finished. It's all over now…_ But there was no pain, no swirling darkness, no light at the end of the tunnel. Instead, there was laughter. Laughter, and something slimy running down his windshield. Sarge opened his eyes. He could see nothing beyond a thick green goo.

The laughter and the hail of paintball shots that followed went completely ignored as the Jeep sat there fuming. He turned his wipers on to clear his vision, then slowly, very slowly, turned to face his attackers. The laughter and the assault died immediately. Covered from bumper to bumper in green and red paint, Sergeant William Armyson had never looked more ridiculous… or more intimidating. And oh, if looks could kill, Fillmore and Ramone would have been doomed. But then, they knew already that they were as good as dead.


	4. Part Four

SARGE'S SAFETY RECALL

PART FOUR

"Hold still, will ya?" Ramone grumbled. His frame creaked slightly as he put the finishing touches on Sarge's new paintjob. The Jeep squinted his eyes almost shut and gritted his teeth. He stood very stiffly, glaring daggers up at Ramone, who had raised himself up on his hydraulics in order to repaint the star on his hood.

Taping a large paper stencil in place, the low rider began the task of filling in the star-shaped cutout with white paint. He tried to avoid making eye-contact with Sarge, though this was rather difficult to do considering he was right in the man's face. Ramone's painting tire was shaking slightly by the time he finished. The instant he was done he peeled the stencil off. When he finally backed away he dropped to the floor so quickly that he bounced on his axles.

"Phew!" he sighed with relief. "All done, hombre, and may I say you're lookin' mighty fly right about now. All spiffy an' new an' -"

"Cram a muffler in it, Ramone," Sarge grumbled. "You just gave me a free paintjob. Don't ruin it by kissing my ass before it's dry."

He drove over to the full-length, angled mirrors set up in a corner of the shop and looked himself over carefully. After a moment he grunted, satisfied with the results. Sarge glanced past his reflection to the mirror images of the two men standing behind him. Ramone and Fillmore appeared nervous as they awaited his approval. Both vehicles were covered from bumper to bumper with dents, scratches, dirt, and red and green tread marks. The Jeep smiled.

"So whadda ya think, man?" Ramone asked him.

Sarge turned around. "Top notch, gentlemen," he replied. "You truly outdid yourselves." Though his voice sounded sincere, both Ramone and Fillmore knew better. They grinned awkwardly as they awaited the inevitable.

"I'd like to thank you both for your efforts," he went on, picking up a paint sprayer loaded with olive drab paint. The same one Ramone had used on him earlier. Their smiles faded as his grew even bigger. He rolled toward them. They backed away.

Sarge flicked a switch and the sprayer whirred to life again. "Now, how about I return the favor? Looks like you two could use a new coat of paint…"

TO BE CONTINUED…?

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Well, I'm calling it quits for now, but if you all would like to read more, I may just have to write a sequel! Sorry this story took so freaking long to write. I'm flaky, and short fiction is a killer to write. Even ask the professionals. Comments please! Thanks!


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